Too mainstream. Nothing special about me. I talk a lot. Nobody listens. May be someone will read. A 20-year-old girl (AND JOURNALIST) in Cairo...

Saturday, November 9, 2013

My 'casting-off the veil' story

I put on my long red cardigan. I
fixed the wide white band in place covering the front of my hair. I stood in
front of the mirror, holding a small pin between my lips and rolled the
colourful scarf over my head like I had been doing for four years. But that
time, before heading to a Galal Amin lecture in a nearby bookshop, I looked at
myself despairingly. I rolled back the scarf, took it down and let it fall
around my neck. I took off the band.

“Do I look okay? Amn’t I still
modest?” I asked my mum, now looking at myself in the hall’s mirror.

My aunt was there too.

“You look great,” my aunt said,
“Let your hair down.”

I did. And I never put my hejab
back on since then.

It was January 2010. On my way to
the bookshop, I pushed down the car window wide open. I was dumbstruck by the
beauty of feeling cold air brush against my neck and through my hair. I
couldn’t repress my smile. It felt so good and it made me feel guilty - even
now as I write it, though for a different reason.

I have finally decided, after
these years, to write about that moment. I had repeatedly refused before
because I did not want to make drama out of a very normal story. I was never
forced to wear the hejab, I did not take it off because I felt it oppressed me
and I am not an anti-hejab advocate in any way. I also refused to write because
I did not want to put up a story at a time when it has become “in-fashion” for
girls to write about their journeys to freedom from the hejab. I did not want
my story to be picked up by cliche feminists referring to me as a victim, whose
mind is trapped, and still afraid to claim “all liberty”.

This is why I hesitated before
writing about the beauty of feeling cold air on my skin. In my head, this
doesn’t go into a whole detailed analysis on how the hejab can disfigure a
girl’s relationship with her body, how it denies her simple natural pleasures,
etc. The air felt good. That was it. I am sure when I try Turkish ‘ayran for
the first time I will feel the same. No drama.

So, setting it clear to disregard
unjustified sensations, I decided that I will finally write, not just
about it, but also about the reasons that kept me off the writing.

My story is very simple. I think
this is why I was always at a loss of a good eloquent answer to the question:
“Why did you take off the hejab?” And I believe this is the case for many girls
who did the same.

I wore the hejab when I was 13
(in 2005). At the time my family did not approve, not just because they thought
I was too young, but because we were living in Ireland. They were afraid it
would make it even more difficult for me at school - already a foreigner and
not very social (amid much ‘Islamophobic tensions’). But I insisted. I wore it
for four years in four different schools and towns around Ireland. It was fine
at times and difficult at others. I considered taking it off halfway through,
but decided against it at the last minute.

As time went on, however, I
realized that my hejab has started becoming more and more about myself. It was
no longer a spiritual act. It was not about my relationship with God anymore.
It fell down to a personal challenge where I refused to submit to the social
difficulties I met because of wearing it. I thought I was defending my culture
and identity, but it turned out I was only defending myself.

After I arrived in Cairo in
summer 2009, I lost the fear of guilt I had toward taking off the hejab. If I
had taken it off in Ireland, I always thought, no one would realize it was a
personal choice. They would always remember that the Muslim girl rebelled
against her backward religion. And I had already met such situations where I
was categorized as the “Muslim girl” and never as “Reem”. I did not want
that to happen.

So after six months in Cairo, I
confessed clearly to myself that I no longer represent the veil on my head. It
contradicted how I was feeling and thinking at the time and I could not keep on
announcing every day that I represent something when I didn’t. I took it off
for the time being. And that was it.

This is my “casting off the veil”
story. Unfortunately, Mubarak, Morsi and El-Sisi didn’t get to play a part in
the drama. Belly dancers of El-Haram Street where I live did not infiltrate my
ideas on body image either. I did not go mad after reading Nawal El-Saadawi. I
am not living a dual life because I am scared of my ultra-conservative family.
A Salafist man did not attack me on the street. Nothing of the sort.

I have no problem with the drama.
In fact, I have to confess it isn’t exactly “dramatic”. I am sure there are
many girls whose stories aren’t as simple as mine. I cannot deny that taking
off the hejab is a more or less taboo subject in our society that can involve
many tensions. But I also know that are a lot like myself who simply made a
personal choice and do not want to get their action zoned into politics.

This isn’t an over-simplification
either. It is true that more girls are taking off the hejab in Egypt. (Or
actually, that more and more girls are braver to take risks and defy rules in a
wider context). And this definitely has social reasons worthy of shedding light
upon and addressing. However, it is nonsensical for me that this is a “massive
trend”, that this is because of the “Muslim Brotherhood”, that hejab is a
synonym for oppression for these girls, and that all those who took it off made
the better more civilised choice.

I do not understand the elitist
point of view writers take when writing about the issue. It is very shallow,
generalizing, and stereotyping. It doesn’t put it in a proper fair wide social
context that deeply understands this society - its women, its religious
practices, its Islamists, its unannounced norms. (Or writers who force
taking off the hejab without strong and clear justification into a political
context).

These stances have always
bothered me. I often felt they are an insult more than anything. Every woman
has her own history, her people, her heavy baggage of experiences and she is a
part of her society. It is unfair to lump her actions and what represents her
into one or two vague categories that do not always reflect her reality.

9 comments:

This is a wonderful post. Delighted to read it, without superimposing any political agenda. You be yourself and wear what you want, what best reflects your personality at that moment (because what we wear always makes a statement of some kind). And may your country develop into acceptance of all her citizens and their choices!

Mariam

Welcome to my blog :)

I'm an Egyptian 20-something journalist. My blog posts are mainly personal, but if it happens to discuss politics, they do not (and for any reason and by any means) represent my employer's view. I like to set free my inner thoughts for everybody to read. I share a lot, I whine a lot...